The Accidental Cougar

Friday night I hung out with friends of the Swede, and had a gay ol' time!
Seriously, it was so gay.

We started our drinking in Surry Hills, a fabulous gayborhood that I've yet to truly discover. I was excited when the Swede's friends asked me to hang out earlier that week, as it not only gave me plans but proved that our short-lived liaison wasn't all for naught. Now (f)unemployed and 75% mobile, I am allowing myself to have fun--you know, dance like no one is watching and all that shit. The Swede's friends (now mine, yay!) are a hetero couple in their mid-30s who pretty much only roll with gays. Seeing as I'm suffering a gay shortage, I am glad to find this hidden world of fabulosity. I'd had two glasses of rose before I left the house, then had three jack and cokes at their friends' house before heading to the bar. We went to a place called the Clock Hotel, and that's where I first noticed that you cannot tell gay and straight men apart in this town. All the dudes are pretty and coiffed and buff and tan, so how can one really tell?

After one drink there, we went to The Colombian, a gay club where I instantly felt at home. This could be because a few gay men were staring at me, and one approached and asked, "Are you famous?"

"Why, yes, I am a blacktress," I said sincerely.
He nodded, then ran back to whisper to his friends.

Phase One of "Operation: Make Everyone Think I'm a Big Deal in America" is complete.

I then started dancing with a petite, sassy gay, and we're having fun. After a few minutes, he starts rubbing me up and down, and, you know, I'm still not put off yet, cause he doesn't want to buy what I'm selling. Then, after a few more minutes, he's sticking his tongue down my throat.
WTF, mates?!
If a gay club isn't a safe space for a blacktress, what is?

Turns out, this gay club is actually mixed, and many straight guys pounce on the hags whose defenses are weakened. In fact, many of the guys use their gay friends as an in. When they first started talking to me, I had dreams of becoming a Diana Ross-like figure, but then I realized they were acting on behalf of their mate, who wanted to take a dip in the Chocolate River.

Anyway, we were rolling about 8 deep, and I'd met a few of the people in the group on New Year's Eve, post-ambulance/pre-Swedish-coitus. One such character was Simon, a smiley British lad who just sort of wandered around and came in and out of the group all night. About 6 wines later, Meg informs me that Simon thinks I'm gorgeous.
"But I thought he was gay?" I ask, totally confused.

Maybe it was the 7 drinks, but for some reason, I thought I'd hook up with Simon. Clearly, flattery will get you everywhere with me-- especially if you're too shy to tell me. I LOVE AN AWKWARD.

However, I do NOT love erectile dysfunction.

We went back to his place and started making out, and it was just as awkward as I'd envisioned. Simon's English accent just lent a sense of "Notting Hill" to the whole thing, and I got way too giggly for a woman of my age. We start to....physically express our emotions....and Simon is as limp as a wet sock! Luckily, my lack of interest in him made this okay for me--but he was quite stressed out.

"Ugh, this always happens," he said as he struggled to not fail at sex.
"It's all right," I said.
He then went on and on about how a guy is expected to perform, and how he wants to but just can't. I tried to calm his fears, and just held him as he recounted various sexual experiences that went awry.

Things I Learned That Night:
Never ask a man if he's a homosexual while he is inside of you.

Yup, I did it. He didn't let the question phase him, saying, "No, no, I've thought about that and that's not it. It's just, you know, hard sometimes."

Or soft, as the case may be. (oooh, call the burn unit, cause that one was fierce!)

I asked him how old he was, trying to piece together a history.
"I'm 20," he said.

OH MY FUCKING GOD.

I was in bed with a 20 year old. I am an accidental cougar. He didn't look very young, and besides, we had been out with 30-somethings--how did his underaged behind slip through the cracks?

This is what happens when you live in a country where the drinking age is 18. You could very well end up in bed with someone who didn't even grow up on 90210 version 1.

I forgot what happened after that--I think my body blacked out to spare myself the trauma.

I woke up the next morning to him trying to wake me up for more--you've got to admire his pluck. I realized I was sleeping on a mattress on the floor.
I was, like Danny Glover, too old for this shit.
I quickly got up to get some water, and saw his roommate downstairs. She was a nice gal, and we'd chatted a lot the night before. She was heading to a friend's place in Glebe, and asked if I wanted a ride.

It was 10:30. My breath reeked of penis and red wine (yeah, I said it.) and I wanted to get the hell out of Dodge.

I ran upstairs, grabbed my bag, and gave Simon a half-hearted kiss on the cheek. We didn't exchange numbers. I didn't know his last name.

Let's just quit while we're ahead, I thought.

Now, a few days later, I don't feel so terrible, though I am a bit disappointed in myself. I am really trying not to do things just for the sake of doing them--and that includes sleeping with underaged randoms who may or may not be homosexual. I should be writing, hiking through the Blue Mountains, or having love affairs with dynamic artists who know how babies are made, you know?

Ah well. This is, like, the foot injury, a minor setback.
From now on, I'm checking ID.

Tell-tale Signs

So, I'm not much of a photographer. I don't like having my picture taken, and traveling solo, I find it awkward to ask a stranger to take my picture in front of a building. Whenever I am around someone, I make them take my photo just so I can send something to my mother and show her I'm alive.

However, I do really enjoy taking photographs of random humorous things. Luckily, Australia is chock full of them! Take, for instance, the snapshots below.

This sign, which I saw while driving through Kiama with my Aussie mum, means Brake for Wombats.

This sign was spotted in Surry Hills, where I was crashing with BCB. Remember all the ladies of the night I was telling you about? Well, apparently, they've got a union!
(What do you think I'd have to do to become part of the $carlet Alliance? Could I transfer credits from my NYC escapades?)

This sign was spotted in the Hunter Valley. I mean, I don't know who this Lindeman character is, but he's a doctor, so I don't doubt him.

"Children Left Unattended Will be Sold as Slaves"
This was in the beer garden at a pub in a town called Jamberoo.

Okay y'all, this next one isn't a sign-- it's actually the cover and a single page from a book I found while wandering through the Rozelle Markets this afternoon. Sydney neighborhoods are big on flea markets, where people mostly sell clothing and used books and dvds. I wandered over to one woman's table and lost my mind when I saw this:

I kid you not, gentle readers. This is for real!!! It basically teaches kids to count to 10 and learn the alphabet using the shenanigans of 10 black children. I really wanted to take pictures of each page--hell, I wanted to buy the book!--but the $20 price tag and the woman's growing suspicion of me meant I could only take one more snapshot. After learning to count to 10 ("ONE went to Africa and then there were NONE") it went on to teach the alphabet.

Does this make your heart hurt a little bit? This book was published in London, by a British company. Who do you think was the target audience?

Learning and Growing, the Aussie Way

Blacktress’ Log, Star Date 16/10/2008, 11pm.

I think things are looking up, gang. I found the gays!!! This is a crucial step towards not only getting acclimated, but becoming an Oprah or RuPaul-like figure in the community.

I just got back from Surry Hills, a happening gayborhood in Sydney. I met up with a friend of a friend who’d I’d never met (you know, in true Blanche Dubois fashion), and she introduced me to her crew, which consists of elite gay visionaries and kindly heteros. It was a mix of Ozzies and Americans, so I got a lot of great advice, both from people who had been through the transition and those who have been in the know all their lives. It was the highlight of my day, the majority of which was spent in a dank room partaking in a Responsible Service of Alcohol course, which I needed to take in order to work with booze.

The interesting thing about the class was that the old Ozzie guy who was teaching it—in addition to looking like the Monopoly guy would after getting a bad hit with Community Chest—was really into booze. Although the main goal was to teach us not to let people get intoxicated and fuck up shit, he really just made me want to get a drink and engage in other vices.

Such gems included:

“Drink, Drink, Drink. That’s the Ozzie motto. We’re not here to stop this. The main goal is CYA—cover your ass.” Good to know. We’re not here for ethics, we’re here to avoid litigation.

“Okay, 15 minute break guys. You have time for approximately three cigarettes and a cup of coffee.”

He also spoke of the perils of both “drink driving and drink walking,” which I’d never heard of.

I think the best part was that we were told there’d be an exam at the end, and we had to pass in order to receive RSA certification. Instead of making sure we perked our ears up and really focused, our instructor would preface his important points with, “there will be a question on this, so listen,” and repeatedly reminded us that we could use our coursebook during the exam.
God bless the Ozzie ethic.

Although I was bored, I was prepared for this seminar after Wednedsay’s 3-hour orientation on the basics of the IEP program—what they offer, tips for finding a job, an apartment, etc. Like the RSA course, it was one of those typical meetings one often dreads in the workplace or in school: a person speaks aloud while navigating a PowerPoint presentation that shows exactly what is being said onscreen. You then are told toward the end that there is an accompanying book which reiterates all information covered both verbally and on screen. This would have been highly boring and irritating if the presenters didn’t have magical accents and random asides that really drove the whole “no worries” concept home.

Gems from the orientation presenters included:

Re: Choosing an apartment. “Bad smells don’t go away, both in life and in an apartment. If you walk in it’s a bit whiffy, don’t think it’s a coincidence. It’s not, and the smell will probably get worse.”

Re: Beach Culture. “This is a great time of year to be in Sydney, and everyone will be on the beach. If you’re not on the beach, you’re not normal.”

In Defense of Vegemite. “We don’t do peanut butter and jelly. That is the most disgusting, most foul thing on earth.” [Note: when asked about my personal thoughts on Vegemite, I simply said “It’s…not the most pleasant flavor I’ve experienced.” Why Peter couldn’t be as diplomatic is beyond me.]

On Australian Wildlife. “It’s not a koala bear, okay? It has nothing to do with a bear!” [He was quite adamant about this, actually. I got a little uncomfortable.]

“We’re the only country that eats its national animal [kangaroo]. But they are delicious, seriously. You should eat them—and don’t feel bad. There are 21 million people in Australia and 140 million kangaroos, so we’re really trying to get through as many as possible.”

On Beach Safety. “The colors of the uniforms and flags are yellow and red, just like on Baywatch--we can’t pull it off as well as Pam and the Hoff, but we do what we can.”

“Alcohol makes you think you’re good at all sorts of things—like swimming—but you’re not.”

So far, I’ve been keeping pretty busy, getting back to the hostel (which is, seriously, the tricked out Cadillac of hostels—it’s out of control) really tired and feeling like I’ve accomplished something. I even looked at my first apartment yesterday, and although it’s only a 6-month lease, I think I want it—not only because it's a 3-minute walk from the train in a great area, but because the woman I’d live with is first cousins with none other than America’s Next Top Model photographer/judge Nigel Barker!

Seriously, there were pictures of the two of them on the mantel. There's even one with her, Nigel, Ms. Jay, and Twiggy.

When the other woman pointed it out, I reacted like any normal person would—by jumping up and down and squealing, of course. She really appreciated the enthusiasm, and even said she was excited to meet someone from New York. They say they’ll have a decision in a week, but I think I’m in there like (red-and-yellow) swimwear. Seriously, I must make this woman (and her apartment) mine.

Until then, I’m just roaming around the city, trying to be as friendly as possible. Today I met a lovely Italian man named Alberto, who showed me where to get free internet during the day. Because I hadn’t brought my laptop, he totally let me borrow his, which was tender. I knew I had him firmly in my grasps when, after hearing he was from Italy, I spoke the only phrase I knew: “Ciao, tu sei divortziato?” which means, “Hello, are you divorced?” He laughed, and asked me if I knew what I’d just said. I translated it, and explained that I don’t know much, but I know what I know. He has a bit of a hair gel issue, but I’m willing to overlook it because he’s too precious and nice, and I’m hoping we can do a language exchange.

Sonya, the German hippie in my hostel, is a gem. I actually make her laugh, which I always find to be an accomplishment when I'm dealing with a non-native English speaker. I told her the story of THE Australian, and she said, "You're very...um...hot-blooded."

I think she gets me.

Okay, well, my internet time is limited, but soon I will discuss my first male suitor. You can take the blacktress out of Harlem, but you can’t take the crazy-attractant off the blacktress.